Sidetracks of sadness

Recently I typed ‘sadness’ into Google just to see what would happen. I’d been thinking about doing it for weeks and then, like succumbing to the temptation of a stiff mid-evening tipple, I finally did it. It was a warm Sunday morning, I had uggboots on my feet and a mug of tea beside me on the desk, and the sun charged through the timber blinds in thick white stripes. I had no idea what I was looking for or what I expected to find. Was I after some kind of revelation? Or a reinforcement? Or was it simply an experiment?

I’m a fan of sadness, the word, and the activity, and the atmosphere. If a book is reviewed as being ‘packed full of sadness’ I’ll rush out to buy it. If a friend describes a movie as being ‘impossibly sad’ I’ll make a note to see it at the earliest opportunity. If a colleague decides someone is ‘a bit of a sad character’ I’ll track down the person and befriend them. I find Sundays sad, which makes them one of my favourite days of the week, along with Fridays. I love Gorecki’s ‘Symphony of Sorrowful Songs’ and play it once a year (full disclosure: I’m listening to it now as I write this).

So what did Google unearth for me? First up was a brief Wikipedia entry complete with two pictures, one a child crying, the other an appropriately mournful man in a bowler hat. Then came a link to ‘Sadness the video game’ which, when finished, will offer ‘associations with narcolepsy, nyctophobia and paranoid schizophrenia’. Third was a YouTube link to the film-clip of Enigma’s famous 1990s pop song, which is a rather jaunty concoction of house beats, keyboard washes, and Gregorian chants.

Then came a series of mental-health links. Finally there was a list of images – photographs, paintings, sketches etc, all homemade by the looks of it – with titles like ‘Sadder than sadness’ (which sounds too much, even for me) and ‘French sadness’ (which doesn’t sound entirely legal) and the ominous ‘Will come to take sadness’.

Then I went to the front door because someone had knocked. Though no one had knocked; I was just hearing things. But on the footpath stood a young man in red T-shirt and blue jeans and white joggers, beside him an old long-haired sheep dog on a lead, her head down and tail limp. Clearly needing to cross the road, the young man, who looked as fit as a daily jogger, checked left and then checked right and then checked left again. The sound of a car coming though there was plenty of time to cross.

But the young man and his dog didn’t move.

They waited until the road was completely deserted in both directions before going. And then I understood why: the dog was so frail that it took minutes to cross the road by slowly, determinedly, putting one paw in front of the other; even the pram-ramp on the other side seemed too much. But the young man so patiently, so kindly, so gently, urged the dog to keep moving forwards, just keep going, we’re not far from home now, you can do it, you really can, because we’ll do it together.